


Tea Time

by karasunovolleygays



Series: Valentine's Kisses 2020 [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, M/M, Post-Hogwarts, Repressed Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:53:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22103626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karasunovolleygays/pseuds/karasunovolleygays
Summary: A possible future changes the outcome of the real one, and it's pretty much all Draco's fault.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Series: Valentine's Kisses 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1589239
Comments: 8
Kudos: 79





	Tea Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jercydee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jercydee/gifts).



> This was written for Valentine's Kisses 2020 Day 3: A breathy demand: “Kiss me” - and what the other person does to respond.

The world is a bigger place after the Battle of Hogwarts and the fall of the Dark Lord. People of all walks of life fill the streets, breathing easy and simply _existing_ without abject fear. Apprehension still lurks in the wings, of course; wounds don’t heal in a single night, but healing they are.

Well, bigger for most, that is. Nooks and crannies offer much smaller shadows for people like Draco Malfoy, a known associate of the most evil wizard who ever lived, to hide.

But as it usually does, a few well placed donations slowly ease their way back into society’s good graces. Draco would be disgusted by how easily people are swayed by money if he weren’t in desperate need to be on the receiving side of that purchased goodwill.

That being said, one thing doesn’t change at all in the handful of years following the war: people still won’t shut their gobs about Harry bloody Potter.

‘Boy Who Lived’ this, ‘Chosen One’ that, and all those egregiously exaggerated monikers still tumble off the lips of every head-up-arse Muggleborn lover in the country. The worst part might be that that level of stardom and notoriety is completely wasted on that floppy haired peasant. Not to mention every girl in the whole bloody country is hot for that goblin’s backside — how vile.

Nevertheless, they take tea together every Sunday afternoon at Harry’s modest apartment. He won’t ever come over to Draco’s family estate, and Draco can’t blame him. If he could, he would burn it to the ground along with every horrible memory soaked into the walls from the Dark Lord’s time in residence during the war.

Why Harry issued that curt first invitation a few months after the war, Draco isn’t sure, nor does he have any idea why he had ever accepted in the first place. But one week turned into two, two into three, and they haven’t stopped yet five years later.

Today is that day, and their usual silence drags on as always. Draco wonders if Harry actually has anything to say to him that he hasn’t got around to yet, or if he is just keeping an eye on Draco in the most inept way possible. Draco leans toward the former, because he doesn’t know what to say, either.

Draco is about to dump the rest of his cold, cheap tea into the sink and take his leave when Harry actually speaks, and Draco’s cup almost finds the floor instead. 

“Ginny wants to get married.”

“What?” Draco wraps both hands around the simple mug before it threatens to escape again in his surprise. “Why?”

It’s a stupid question without an answer, and Harry’s derisive stare agrees. Draco doesn’t know why he has an opinion on the matter at all. If Harry wants to breed with riffraff, Draco couldn’t care less. He isn’t the one who has to wake up next to that loud wench.

Harry answers just the same. “Why does anybody get married? You might want to consider it, too.”

Draco’s brows knit into a straight line over his scrunched nose. “Abso-bloody-lutely not,” he snaps, despite his parents mentioning the same thing not even a month before. “I’ve been held prisoner in my own home before. I won’t do it again.”

A retort dies on the tip of Harry’s tongue. It’s something they don’t talk about, that night when they got a glimpse of each other’s lot during the war. Harry had been a mass of skin and bone and scars, and Draco had been a hollow eyed shell of a man who could barely live with how afraid he had been to die. 

However, that unspoken moment of understanding in which Draco realized Harry was probably his best chance to live through the war had lanced a thread of courage through Draco that dangerously resembled hope. That thread had snapped taut, and now they have the strangest kind of companionship either of them have ever experienced.

Harry pours out the dregs of Draco’s cold tea and replaces it with a stiff three fingers of firewhiskey. “Down the hatch. You know how this ends.”

“Sod off,” Draco hisses even as his fingers move to clutch the mug for dear life.

He does know how this ends. Anytime old Voldemort shaped ghosts creep into his brain, Draco finds himself with nausea and insomnia as a bedmate. After a while, he would even settle for Harry’s crude ginger girlfriend as an alternative.

That Harry knows this, Draco is eternally irritated by the fact, but there is no hiding it after an ill-timed nap on Harry’s couch had ended with a bout of screaming and shivering on the floor. A stray upholstery button had grazed his Dark Mark and launched Draco into a tailspin of reflexive panic that his life was once again firmly in the Dark Lord’s serpentine grip.

Had Harry said a word about it when it happened? Not a single one. Instead, he sat next to Draco on the floor and the two of them watched the dull flicker of the lamp on the coffee table, passing a mediocre bottle of firewhiskey back and forth until it was empty.

Today brings a similar ritual. Draco pickles his nightmares in liquor, and Harry lets Draco see how exhausted he still is this long after the war. 

As his drink takes hold, Draco’s shoulders sag and he melts into Harry’s side as they slide just a little bit closer together on the couch. His lax mind could almost swear an arm wraps around him as he drifts off.

A sliver of bright morning light harasses Draco back to consciousness. Chilly air dances along his spine where his untucked shirt is rucked up halfway to his underarms. Draco ducks his chin into the warm mass underneath him to ward it off, only to be shaken back to reality by a pained grunt.

“Gerrof,” Harry grumbles beneath him, glasses askew on his face. “‘S early.”

Draco harrumphs and pokes the bridge of Harry’s glasses back into place. “No wonder you were horrible at school.” 

Yet even as he jibes, Draco eases back into place, limbs draped around Harry’s whole body. They’ll both deny it ever happened later when they’re really awake, but until then, Draco absorbs every second of it. 

Away from the revealing light of day, they manage to steal a moment or two like this one. For those rare slices of time, Draco isn’t a pureblood prince desperate to recapture the clout that comes with a noble name, and Harry isn’t the one person bent on tipping his entire lifestyle on its ear and grinding it into the mud. 

They’re just _them_ , and this charged thing that has simmered between them since they were first years is the only thing in the world.

This morning, however, something is different. Draco’s eyes don’t flutter closed again so he can pretend it doesn’t have to end and the two of them go their separate ways. Harry’s jaw doesn’t grow slack, and that telltale trickle of drool that betrays his contentment doesn’t drizzle from the corner of his mouth. 

Eyes meet and breaths catch.

“Draco,” Harry murmurs, voice rasping with something that makes Draco’s blood dance. “One of these days, you’re going to actually have to kiss me.”

“What?” Draco props himself up on his elbows and gawks at Harry. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

A smirk teases Harry’s lips. “And you think I’m the stupid one.”

Rough fingers push into Draco’s mussed hair and guide their mouths together for what is certainly not either of their first kisses, but it’s definitely the first time one coaxes a growl of need from deep in his throat. 

Harry’s lips wrench away from Draco’s, chest heaving as it chases a full breath. “Got tired of waiting on you.”

Draco’s jaw sags open as he plucks Harry’s glasses from his face and tosses them on the end table. Green eyes stare back, bright and sharp as gems. Not even the small scars littered around Harry’s face could dull those eyes. They might actually make them that much stronger.

The color green holds a lot of weight in Draco’s life. It’s the color of his life at school, the color of death he’s seen flash far too many times for his taste. But where those have been a tempest of pride and greed and hate, here in this ill kept hovel of a flat Harry calls home, it’s the only thing that can defeat the dark.

Harry Potter is his relief, his shield, and Draco no longer has the will to pretend otherwise. “Don’t marry the Weasley girl.”

“Oh, and why shouldn’t I?”

The lingering smile on Harry’s lips makes Draco want to strangle him. Harry knows the answer; they both do. He just wants to make Draco say it out loud — something they both know will be awkward and embarrassing.

Maybe he’s tired or hung over or out of his mind, but Draco isn’t sure he cares anymore. “Because you’re mine,” he breathes, and his lips descend to stake his claim.

Like it’s the most natural thing in the world, the two of them scrabbling against buttons and buckles until warm skin is finally against warm. Hips grind out a blanket of pleasure, and despite the sticky aftermath, Draco can’t remember feeling this pure or free.

“I should probably go to work,” Harry mouths against Draco’s temple as his fingertips draw telltale arcs on Draco’s back. “It’s almost nine, and I have a meeting with Kingsley at ten.”

Draco tightens his hold on Harry’s torso and shakes his head. “Stay.”

Harry sighs that tired sigh he always sighs when Draco says something that smacks of having a choice in the matter. “You know I can’t. I’m an Auror. I can’t just _decide_ not to go to work, Draco.”

The sound of his name on Harry’s lips strengthens Draco’s resolve. It’s something he’s wanted to say for years but hasn’t considered doing until now. “And why is that? Everyone else on the bloody planet can quit their job if they hate it. Why are you so special?”

“How did you —”

With a little slap to Harry’s temple, Draco hisses, “How could I not? Every week your lot score some big raid, when I see you next you look like shit.” Breathless from his diatribe, Draco rests his forehead against Harry’s and screws his eyes shut. “Stop doing what everyone expects you to do, you stupid git.”

“All right, then.” Harry snatches his wand off the coffee table and gives it a sharp flick, and a scrap of parchment races into the room. With a swish, some quill-but-not-quill contraption follows. “So, how would _you_ tell the Minister for Magic to find himself a new Head Auror?”

“I know exactly what I’d say.” Draco snakes Harry’s wand and wrests a few commands from it, and words scrawl onto the parchment midair in wobbly but legible black ink. Before Harry can intercept, Draco summons a rental owl and sends the letter on its way to the Ministry. “Done.”

Harry sags into the couch. “Oh, bloody hell. I’m going to get fired by the end of the day.”

“Good.” Draco drowns out Harry’s objections with a harsh kiss that steals both their breaths. “So, shall we stay here all day or go find your flea-infested mattress and give it some exercise?”

Harry’s cheeks burn and Draco’s are pink, as well, but both of them head for the microscopic bedroom as if it’s the only place in the world. And perhaps it is. Maybe this little ethereal oasis he finds in Harry is reality, and everything else is a product of a poor imagination.

A few hours later, Draco saunters into the kitchen wearing nothing but a pair of unbuttoned trousers — Harry’s, no less — and roots through the cooling cabinet for some sort of sustenance. Once he spots a couple of pumpkin juice bottles and half a dozen muffins, he heads back to the bedroom where Harry lies fast asleep. 

From the corner of his eye, a stray scrap of pale paper catches his attention, and Draco examines it closer. It’s addressed to Harry, sealed with the crest of the Ministry of Magic.

So he gets an answer that quickly? Shacklebolt must have Harry high on his priority list.

He tucks the missive under his arm and heads back to the bedroom. A cold bottle against his face sends Harry vaulting to his feet from a sound sleep, wand in hand and body coiled ready to strike. When he spies Draco, the tension leaches from his shoulders and he drops down on the bed. “Rude bastard,” Harry mutters as he takes the proffered juice.

“Your reply is here,” Draco says, tossing the letter onto Harry’s bare lap. “Read it out loud so I can eat first.”

Harry’s hands tremble as the pop the seal on the message, but they both sigh their relief when it’s revealed not to be a Howler of any kind. His eyes race over the words on the page time and time again, growing wider with every pass without so much as a single syllable uttered for Draco’s benefit. 

Must he do everything himself?

Draco snatches the letter and reads it aloud:

> _Dear Mr. Potter,_
> 
> _It’s with the utmost enthusiasm that I grant the request for an indefinite sabbatical from your position of Head Auror. I’ve always lamented how hard you’ve worked since the war ended, not taking a single moment for yourself to enjoy being a young man in a free world._
> 
> _So take those moments now with the person who cares enough for you to resign on your behalf as if I don’t know it isn’t your handwriting. Don’t judge them too harshly, as they may have saved the life you should be living._
> 
> _I hope this letter finds you well now and in the future._
> 
> _My best regards,_
> 
> _Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister for Magic_

“Any questions?” Draco tosses the letter over his shoulder and drains the rest of his drink before finishing off Harry’s, as well.

Next to him, Harry drops back spread eagle on the bed and closes his eyes. An ill-used peaceful expression eases into place. “None at all.”


End file.
